


Hollow

by dvske



Series: Implicit [8]
Category: Transistor (Video Game)
Genre: Drabble, Gen, Past Life Musings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-01
Updated: 2015-09-01
Packaged: 2018-04-18 10:54:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4703426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dvske/pseuds/dvske
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He remembers the fall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hollow

There’s no warmth, just varying degrees of cold.

Evening’s bite, sharp and merciless, sinking into the bone as it paints the city in somber hues—royal blue tinged autumn rose by lights flickering in the distance. The moon’s glow, dulled to a translucent haze along the horizon. The city, its nightlife waning and the lull of noise in the background starting to fade, finally falls to slumber. It shrinks in on itself. Blinds closing, one by one. Streetlamps dimming. The stars above, distant and sparse, even if one squints. Everywhere, a hush. Stillness.

And in these moments, despite the calm, Royce finds himself painfully awake.

He ignores the chill grazing his skin, leaves the door cracked open just so, and pads barefoot onto his apartment balcony. A cigarette between his fingers, smoke seeping through clenched teeth as he surveys the sight before him. Hair unkempt, eyes unfocused in that weary way reserved for restless dreamers, for lost and wandering souls drowning in their thoughts. Not even so much as a jacket, just a coal-colored shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. Bones pop, crack, as he stretches himself and leans heavily on the railing.

He takes a long drag, eyes slipping shut. Breathes out.

The radio plays from inside. A woman’s voice, echoing. Soothing. Encompassing.

Familiar.

She sings of knotted spines.

It’s the same song, every few nights. The same station, one he hasn’t yet brought himself to change. Something about her, that song, calls ivory towers to mind. Skeletal towers, looming and brilliant, stretched across an expanse of dissolving colors. A world breaking apart. Ivory towers, crumbling so soundlessly that it’s as if time has slowed. Chunks of debris sinking overhead, inching closer to the earth in that frame-by-frame motion that frightens, that threatens to shatter what remains. Remnants of a world ruled by whim, one that shifts and molds itself as surely as clay at the potter’s wheel.

He hears that voice and thinks of velvet gowns, drops of gold and red blooming against white walls. Static. A blank canvas, waiting for vivid strokes. White and red and gold…

Blue. Pulsing, blue. A string of numbers swimming in his peripheral, swarming. Pulsing, light, and a weight in his hands. The weight of power, unbridled and unyielding. Unrelenting, filling him to the brim with a sense of purpose. Certainty.

Fleeting.

Something about that voice.

Almost like a lullaby.

But he can’t sleep.

There’s ache rooted in that voice, in her song, an ache taking root in his chest. Circles and cycles and patterns, repeating. Patterns, broken. And, as a result, broken people.

He thinks of parasols and lace (white, red, white-gold tresses dipping past slender shoulders). The scent of chamomile and lemon, the caress of gloved hands on his arms.

He thinks of russet skin, russet fingers typing away in fluid motions, breathing life into each paragraph. Ink stains and inquisitive eyes, a grin tugging at the lips. Charm and curiosity in equal measures.

He thinks of sturdy hands, sturdy features, ambition and dedication unmatched. Gentleness, behind the mask, vulnerability. A steadfast figure, paving their steps. Paving the way.

A way where?

_That...that’s always the question._

There are no answers. Instead, there is the cold. The night. The calm. The woman on the radio, singing.

And he opens his eyes, gaze locked on the skyline; imagines it quivering as her voice rises. A shadowy spine, wrapped around the world.

Twisted, tied.


End file.
